


An Argument

by missigma



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCEU
Genre: Bondage, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Leather gloves, M/M, Painplay, Piercings, Post-Canon, Rimming, Scars, Under-negotiated Kink, porn with a small amount of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: After his breakup with Lois, Clark finds conflict and comfort in the arms of Bruce Wayne.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> This is my everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attempt at the DCEU Exchange, in that I tried to include as many kinks as possible by stringing a series of sex scenes together. To my recip, I hope you enjoy.

“No.”

Bruce stood firm. The thick leather of his cape hung down over his shoulders, obscuring most of his body beyond the scowl he wore on his lips. In the dimness of the cave, he easily blended into the grey shadows of the walkway that led up to the workroom.

“It’s not your decision to make,” Clark reminded him. “If we’re going to work together as the League, we’ll need to vote on issues like leadership.”

“Who else would you appoint to be a tactician? Yourself?”

For a moment, Clark struggled with the impulse to stoop to Bruce’s level, but held his tongue. He had come here to negotiate their partnership in the League, not to argue. “No. I’d accept whoever the League elected.”

 “They’ll elect me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Bruce took a step forwards. “And they’ll appoint you their leader. You make a good figurehead.”

“Bruce,” Clark tried to control his anger and failed, heavy hand coming down on Bruce’s chest. He shoved him backwards, only stopping when his back met the wall.

A fierce smile was his reward. “Clark,” Bruce echoed his tone almost mockingly. “Personally, I think the League would be better off led by someone who wasn’t quite so easy to bait. Imagine what would happen if I were to mention Lois.”

“Don’t.” And perhaps Bruce was right; he was too easily baited, because the name alone raised his hackles.

“Just making a point, Superman.” Bruce reached for Clark’s hand, lifting it from his shoulder. He stepped deeper into the cave, doffing his cowl as he went. His hair, pressed flat by his helm, slipped over his forehead in thick, sweat-damp strands. Still grinding his teeth, Clark trailed after him.

 “She left, you know.” The words got him the barest sideways glance from Bruce. Clark knew he was crossing a line; they never talked about relationships. But he wanted to explain his anger tonight, and, admittedly, needed to tell _someone_.

No question came from Bruce, nothing to prompt him to continue the conversation. He did not even get what he had expected, the gruff acknowledgement of a grunt or a shrug. Regardless, Clark plowed on, desperate to finally tell someone after holding this in for days. He couldn’t tell his mother, didn’t want her worry or her disappointment. And that left him with an incredibly small circle of people he could speak freely to.

“It was Wednesday,” he continued recklessly, now unable to look at Bruce. “She said she needed time after—”

“Clark,” Bruce tried to cut in.

“But she’d already moved on, I think. Before. When she thought I was—”

“Clark, stop.”

“I don’t think I could do that. Move on like that. Maybe you don’t know what that’s like, but—”

Bruce flattened his gloved hand over Clark’s lips, clasping his jaw shut. His grip, hard over Clark’s nose and mouth, would have smothered any human. Shocked by the contact, Clark did not immediately pull away, though Bruce’s attempts to restrain him were ultimately futile. His sheer confusion gave Bruce enough time to back him into the glass that divided the workroom from the rest of the cave.

“Enough,” Bruce growled. Still holding Clark tight, he leaned into him, pinning him with his hips. “Enough about your love life, enough about Lois.”

“Bruce—” Clark tried to speak around Bruce’s fingers as he inhaled the scent of oiled leather. Bruce threaded a knee between his thighs and pressed up against his groin. And Clark knew, no matter what his misgivings were about Bruce, this position could quickly turn compromising.

“Shut up.” Bruce shook him slightly. His voice dropped. “Unless you want me to stop, shut up.” Holding Clark firmly, Bruce ground his hip into Clark’s groin. To the little, muffled sound he got, he repeated the motion, fingers of his free hand fumbling over the front of Clark’s suit as he tried to find a catch.

Wide-eyed, Clark simply stared at him, too surprised to move to help or indeed to do anything else. He inhaled as Bruce again rolled his hip into him, his fingers stretching the material of Clark’s suit as he sought to tear it from him. Wordlessly, Clark put his fingers to the burnished gold shield that marked his chest. At his touch and with his intention, the fabric dissolved under Bruce’s questing fingers, tessellating into hexagons that retracted back into the shield.

As the suit disappeared, Bruce withdrew his hand. His desire appeared to be momentarily sidetracked by his interest in the suit, keen eyes tracking its progress. Curiously, he ran his fingers up over the rapidly receding material, before finally finding the Kryptonian lettering of the shield. He slid his fingers under the edge of the shield and lifted it from Clark’s chest, before casting it on the nearby workbench.

The suit discarded, Bruce’s attention quickly returned to Clark himself. One broad hand worked slowly over Clark’s newly bared chest, surveying the expanse of muscle, though he was none too gentle in his exploration. He pinched at him, fingers rough over his nipples.

“Mmph,” Finally, Bruce freed his mouth, opting instead to palm his way eagerly down his chest to his cock.

Reaching out, Clark found Bruce’s hip and pulled. He ground his hardening cock against the armor that covered Bruce’s groin, bucking into the friction of the leathery material. He found a clasp and pulled, half-baring Bruce’s undersuit. Despite the dark colored fabric, Clark could clearly see the hardened line of his cock and the sticky wetness seeping from the head.

Bruce stayed his wandering hands with a quick squeeze at his wrists. Breath held, Clark watched as Bruce worked his armor open, undoing another clasp near his hip, then a small half circle of snaps in his undersuit. His cock fell into Clark’s hand, hot and thick.

Bruce hummed appreciatively as Clark took him in his fist. He let himself be pushed and pulled over to the worktable, then sprawled across it as Clark shoved hard at his shoulders. Forearms braced on either side of Bruce’s head, Clark crowded against him. He could feel the warmth of Bruce’s breath as he gasped and panted as Clark thrust his hips against Bruce’s own.

“Fuck,” Bruce hissed as friction built between them. He slid his hand down to touch them both, fingers wrapping tight around their shafts. Clark thrust through his fist and through the growing stickiness on their skin. When he came, he leaned into Bruce, resting chest against chest. He felt Bruce twitch and moan as he worked himself to his own orgasm.

Clark barely had a moment’s respite before his mind began to turn. Nothing about the last few frantic moments made sense. This was _Bruce_. And, though they may work perfectly well as part of a team, their relationship had yet to fully recover from their initial distrust. They were not friends, and Clark could scarcely even bring himself to imagine that Bruce might like anything about him. Still, here they remained, exchanging the heat of their lust in the cold of the cave.

As Bruce came down, his eyes found Clark’s in time to deliver the final blow. He lifted his chin. “I think you’ll be able to move on just fine.”

Clark recoiled, lifting himself from the table where they lay. He could not bring himself to look at Bruce directly, afraid of the judgement he might find on his face. Bruce did not try to speak to him again before he left, flying into the pitch blackness of the lake tunnel.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Clark could not quite find the right word to describe how he felt. Shock probably came closest, as he struggled to name exactly why the encounter seemed so implausible. Whether seen as Bruce Wayne, Batman, or something in between, Bruce was so far out of his league that Clark could not imagine him taking interest in him.

Clark could not puzzle out what their encounter could mean, besides the obvious. Bruce must be sexually attracted to him on some level. And though Clark was not sure he had allowed himself to think of Bruce like that before, he did find him to be attractive, though perhaps he had underestimated how deep that attraction went.

Avoidance was not an option, no matter the temporary comfort it brought. The other, possibly more mature option, was to simply ask: “What are your feelings for me?”

It was an awkward question, made impossibly worse by Bruce’s response.

Clark waited until they were alone, late at night after a mission for the League. There was nothing but clean up left, no more threats to pursue and no civilians to protect.

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked, his voice harsh through his modulator. Clark suspected that the question was only meant to stall him, to postpone the conversation until Bruce puzzled out the correct response.

Still, Clark found himself unprepared. He had not expected Bruce to feign ignorance; he had thought it would be impossible to try. “I mean—I,” he stumbled. “Last week when we,” Clark struggled to describe the act without seeming crude, “—had sex. I just wanted to know why that happened? Why then? Why me?”

Face impassive, Bruce patiently waited for him to fall silent. Calmly, he explained, “I initiated that because I find you physically attractive. There’s nothing more than that.” Bruce’s eyes glittered behind his cowl. “I assume you feel the same.”

“Yes.” Clark was quick to agree, hoping it would lead to a simple resolution.

“I’m needed in Gotham,” Bruce continued, and as he spoke the Batwing appeared at the edge of the rooftop. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Night,” Clark mumbled, watching as he leapt into the cockpit. As his usual frustration with Bruce returned, he could not help but wonder what it was that he had found attractive about him in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

For days afterwards, Clark reviewed the awkward encounter. He did not see Bruce again and, after Bruce failed to show for a second League meeting, Clark began to wonder if he was outright avoiding him.

To Clark’s knowledge, they had had no other conflict. And for the first time, he found himself ready and willing to ask Bruce to forgive him, if it meant some part of their uncomfortable partnership continuing.

Frustratingly, there was no way for him to apologize for that wrong if he couldn't get a moment alone with Bruce. He pondered and plotted, but for little worth as it turned out that seeing him again was as easy as making an appointment with his secretary.

Clark honestly hadn't expected such a direct approach to work. Even as he climbed the steps to the newly rebuilt Wayne Financial Building, he remained convinced that Bruce would call at any moment to cancel. However, when he reached the lobby he was easily waved through security. It felt intimidating to walk through the building as nothing more than Clark Kent. Unkempt and dressed in a shabby sport coat, he clearly did not belong in Gotham, much less in the softly lit executive office that Bruce occupied for at most a dozen hours every week.

When Clark stepped through the door, Bruce did not rise to meet him. Instead, he arched an eyebrow as he reclined in his high-backed leather chair, attention still held by his phone. Bruce hardly seemed to belong behind his desk, however expensive the furniture might be, as he projected the air of a socialite trapped at a rather boring party. The idea of him working in an office under any identity seemed outright laughable.

"Hey," Clark dragged out one of the chairs that sat in front of Bruce's desk, wincing as it squeaked on the wooden floor. He shuffled his messenger bag awkwardly into his lap as he sat down, though he did not bother to uphold the pretense that he was here as a reporter.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kent," Bruce greeted him smoothly, letting the phone clatter on his desk. Clark frowned a little at his formality, before pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Bruce," he caught and held his gaze. "I think I need to apologize to you."

"For what?" Bruce furrowed his brow, but Clark was certain that his confusion was not genuine.

"Last week, I asked you how you felt about me. I think that made you feel like I was pushing something on you, but I didn't mean to do that. I just wanted to put a name to whatever's going on with us.”

As he spoke, Bruce rifled through the drawers of his desk. Eventually, he produced a tin. Popping it open with his thumb, he selected two mints. After slipping them onto his tongue, one after the other, he relaxed back in his chair.

Clark listened to the soft crunch as Bruce crushed the mints between his molars. "Bruce," he called, frustration peaking.

In return, Bruce opened his eyes wide, mock-innocent. Easily, he feigned attention. "It's fine." His face remained as easy, as relaxed as it had been before.

"Fine?" Clark refused to be brushed off. "You've been avoiding me ever since last week. Ever since—”

"Don't worry about it." Bruce grabbed at the arms of his chair, pushing himself up out of his seat. He strode around the edge of his desk, stopping barely a foot to Clark's right. He leaned there at the corner and stretched out his legs.

"Bruce."

Bruce swallowed. Clark watched the way his throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing just above the knot of his tie. Then, moving faster than Clark thought he could, he grasped either arm of Clark's chair and kissed him.

He tasted strongly of peppermint as he pressed his tongue into Clark's mouth. His mouth felt unnaturally cool against Clark's, the bright taste of the mint shared between them.

Though it was not what he came here for, Clark wanted nothing more than to open up beneath him, to find out where this road led. Placing his hand flat across Bruce’s chest, Clark pushed him back. He looped his fingers under his black silk tie, holding him in place, half-stooped over him.

“I wanted to talk.” Clark licked his lips where Bruce had left behind the soft, pleasant burn of peppermint.

“You already did.”

Clark tightened his grip, dragging him closer. Rather than resisting, Bruce let him pull him towards him, inch by inch, until he had little choice other than to climb into Clark’s lap.

They could barely fit in the chair together, legs tangled and cramped between its narrow arms. Bruce was warm and solid against Clark, one knee resting firmly against Clark’s groin. Leaning back, Clark let the slick fabric slip through his fingers.

Grasping Clark’s shoulders, Bruce leaned close. Clark felt his breath on his cheek as he teased: “Do you still want to talk?”

“I’ve said my piece.”

His reward was Bruce’s sweet mouth on his as his hands slid up to frame Clark’s face. Hand at the small of Bruce’s back, Clark pulled his body flush against his. Fingers slipping lower, he gripped at Bruce’s ass through the tightly stretched wool of his trousers.

Grasping at the lapels of Bruce's suit coat, Clark dragged it down his shoulders. He kissed the side of Bruce's neck, dragging a little gasp out of him as he sucked at a spot just below his ear. Underneath a cologne that was stronger than anything _he_ would ever wear, Clark found the warm scent of Bruce himself.

"Stay there," Bruce pushed him back into the chair and stood.

Clark barely had time to be disappointed before Bruce reached for his belt. Swiftly, he worked at the buckle, before his long fingers found Clark's fly. He kissed Clark again, all while encouraging him to lift his hips just enough so that Bruce could get his khakis down his thighs.

Clearly, Clark heard footsteps pass by the door and jerked back. Bruce caught his nervous glance and grinned. "Worried, boy scout?"

The pet name nearly put him at ease, but not enough to stop him from asking: "Will anyone come in here?"

"You'd know if someone was going to walk through that door, wouldn't you?" As he spoke, Bruce ran his hand over Clark's cock, touching him through the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs. “I have almost an hour before my next meeting. I’ll trust you to warn me of any drop-ins.”

Clark tipped his head back. At this moment, even he could not help but doubt his own powers, knowing he could not focus on anything outside this room. This was Bruce Wayne, the performance, and Clark found himself incapable of thinking of anything else.

Bruce knelt before him, trousers stretching tight over his muscled thighs. Lifting his chin, he squeezed at his cock, still smiling darkly. He lowered his lips to mouth at Clark's shaft through cotton. As his lips worked at Clark’s cock, he hiked up his shirt, fingers smoothing over the muscle just above his pelvis. Then he looped his thumbs under the elastic of his boxer-briefs. Bruce stretched and the soft blue fabric gave, sliding over the jutting bone of his hips and down his thighs.

His eyes flicked back up to Clark, as he put his tongue to flesh for the first time to Clark’s muted gasp. Licking slowly along his member, he took his time in reaching the crown of his cock. He paused there, lapping at the slit, swallowing the precome beginning to bead there.

With his clever tongue, Bruce continued to toy with Clark, taking his time tonguing at the pulsing vein underneath. Clark groaned as Bruce finally wrapped his lips around him, taking the head of his cock into his mouth before hollowing his cheeks and drawing back. Grasping at the base of Clark's cock, Bruce worked in his fist what he could not yet fit in his mouth. Slowly, he pushed farther, until he had fit most of the shaft into his mouth.

 Clark reached down, combing his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Bruce's neck. When Bruce took him to the back of his throat, he tangled his fingers through the greying hair at each of Bruce’s temples, pulling tight as Bruce swallowed him deeper still. His eyes remained fixed to him as took Clark down his throat, watching the rounded ‘O’ of his lips.

Bruce’s phone buzzed on the desk. Startled by the sudden sound, Clark glanced up. Frowning, he turned his attention back to Bruce. “Don’t tell me you need to answer that.”

Smirking, Bruce pulled off just to ask: “What would you do if I did?”

Clark hesitated, though the fantasy was already half-formed in his mind. “I’d bend you over your desk and pin you down by your neck.” Clark groaned as Bruce’s lips sank down around his cock again and stroked his fingers through his hair. “I’d test your endurance, see how long you could take me. You’d miss your next meeting and the one after that. I’d keep you there for the rest of the afternoon, until you begged me to stop.”

Bruce reached down, his fingers grasping at the front of his trousers. He rocked forwards into the pressure of his own hand. As he did, he moaned softly, a sound that Clark could feel as a gentle hum around his cock. Self-control wearing thin, Clark gently let his hips roll into the wet heat of Bruce’s throat.

Bruce gagged slightly, before wrapping a hand around the back of Clark’s thigh, pulling as he encouraged him to do it again. Panting, Clark obliged. “I’d let you answer your phone though. When they called to see where you were, why the door was locked, I’d let make your excuses. You’d have to try to control yourself, to keep yourself from moaning into the receiver and giving the whole game away.”

As he looked down at Bruce, his jaw stretched around his shaft, the fantasy seemed tantalizingly close to reality. Groaning, Clark twisted at his grip on Bruce’s hair. "Bruce," he barely managed to warn him, his name half-whispered.

Greedily, Bruce swallowed down his seed. He remained there, until Clark thought to release him, apologetically removing his hand from Bruce's hair. Breathless, Bruce sat back on his heels, leaning against the front of the desk. His lips were red and wet with saliva and remained parted as he dragged in air.

Lower still, Clark could see how hard he was through his trousers. "Bruce,” he reached out to him. "Come here."

"That’s not necessary,” Bruce rasped. He reached behind his head, pulling himself up with his hand on the edge of the desk.

"Bruce," Clark whispered. He stood, pants still undone. There was nowhere for Bruce to go as the backs of his thighs met the solid wood of his desk.

Scooping him up gently, one hand just below his ass, Clark lifted him. Immediately, Bruce's hands came up to grasp tightly at Clark's shoulders, but he offered no protest as he panted into the side of his neck. Bruce continued to grip at him even after Clark set him down on the edge of the desk. As tall as Bruce was, Clark suspected that he had seldom encountered a partner who could do this to him.

Clark swiftly pulled his fly open and dipped his hand inside. He quickly coaxed Bruce to come over himself, mouthing gently at his throat. “Won’t you moan for me?” he prompted him as Bruce’s breath grew harsh, thighs trembling, but Bruce choked off the sound and buried it in curses.

When he finished, Clark raised his hand to examine his cum-smeared fingers. He keenly felt Bruce’s eyes on him as he raised his hand to his mouth, tongue quickly sweeping up the cum that stained his skin.

Arms braced behind him, Bruce sat on his desk, his face and body free from his usual focused tension. His hair was unkempt, the locks of his bangs slipping down over his forehead. The strands at his temples were especially wild, twisted upright by Clark’s hands.

His suit was similarly rumpled, coat lying on the floor, trousers sliding down his hips, and his shirt and waistcoat bearing stains of sweat and cum. Bending down, Clark put his lips to the milky pool on his shirt, lapping up the liquid from the fine cotton.

“Fuck.” Bruce watched him breathlessly, distractedly stroking through Clark’s curls.

Lower, his attention turned to Bruce’s cock, where it lay amongst the jumbled mess of Bruce’s trousers and boxer-briefs. Half out of curiosity, Clark pressed his lips to the head. Oversensitive, Bruce whimpered. After a quick kiss to the slick crown, Clark drew back.

Bruce did not let him get far, looping his fingers under Clark’s collar and reeling him back in. He kissed him fiercely, stubble scratching against Clark’s jaw. He did not seem to mind that Clark still tasted like him as he found the bitter taste on Clark’s tongue. His need for oxygen was the only thing that brought him back out, shifting backwards on his desk.

Swallowing, Bruce drew a deep breath, then another as he tried to collect himself. His eyes remained fixed on Clark, as if he could not help himself. It took a full minute for him to shake himself from his haze, standing to dress himself again.

Leaning on the arm of his chair, Clark watched as Bruce struggled to regain his usual flawless appearance. Bruce buttoned his suitcoat over the stain on his shirt, then raked a hand through his hair.

Glancing out the window, Bruce swallowed. He glanced back at Clark to find him buttoning his khakis. “I keep an apartment uptown.”

“I know.” Clark had found it four months ago, purely by accident. Searching for the Bat, he had found Bruce instead, wound as tight as ever though he was not alone that night.

Bruce momentarily chewed on his tongue, distracted by the revelation. Then he leaned back. “I’ll meet you there tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

It went on like that for weeks. There were barely any words exchanged between them, no sign of their relationship until they found themselves alone. The sex remained much the same, all hands and mouths and friction.

More and more, they made excuses to spend time together, venturing outside of their usual roles as teammates. As Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent they met for hurried encounters, hidden in Bruce’s car, his office, the uptown apartment.

One afternoon, seconds from coming in Bruce’s hand, Clark leaned into him and hissed, “I want to fuck you.”

“Do you?” Something changed in Bruce’s voice, his tone growing rough as he asked, “What would you do?”

He would fuck him bent over the counter in the apartment’s kitchen and pressed face-first into the wall. Then, when his legs shook so badly he couldn’t stand, Clark would have him on the couch, pulling him back into his thrusts by his hair.

Clark didn’t tell him this, he showed him. It was days after their last encounter, weeks since he had detailed how he’d like to test his endurance in his office. He and Bruce were alone in his apartment and they both knew exactly why the other was there.

Bruce was only too happy to lean into the countertop, hands braced on the cool marble. Trousers discarded, he waited for Clark with his back arched and his bare feet apart. Clark hiked up Bruce’s shirt, revealing first his ass and then his lower back, pitted and twisted with scars. Then, with one quick jerk, he tore it at its seams. Bruce shivered, a small involuntary shudder of his shoulders, as the last scraps of his clothing were discarded.

Slowly, Clark slid his hands up the insides of his muscular thighs, and Bruce spread his legs a little wider. Clark took his time working his fingers into him, relishing the little gasps that escaped his lips.

Sex with Bruce was something of a revelation. Though there was no denying the intimacy of their previous encounters, Bruce rarely lost control. He seemed determined to dominate every aspect of their sexual relationship with his hands and his tongue.

However, that practiced control slipped when Clark pushed inside him. A groan escaped him, bursting from his lips. He could no longer hold his gasps behind his teeth, not like he had when Clark took him in his hand and begged him to moan for him.

“More.” Bruce growled, reaching back to Clark’s hip. “Don’t you dare hold back for me.”

Bruce’s sheer desperate need spurred him on. Clark pinned him to the countertop with one hand between his shoulder blades and pulled his hips up to match his. Later, he twisted Bruce’s arms behind his back, pulling tight on his wrists as he took him against the wall.

Bruce let Clark continue to fuck him well after he had come and well after he had any hope of getting hard again. He continued to cling to Clark even as exhaustion overtook him. “Keep going,” Bruce urged him whenever he faltered. “Don’t stop.”

Despite his promises, Clark could not last all night. He came once inside Bruce, as he held him up against the wall. Much later, he came again, Bruce’s ankles wrapped tight around his waist.

Bruce’s breath hitched as Clark pulled out of him. His legs fell away from Clark’s hips to rest limply on the cushions. He lay sprawled across the couch, unmoving beyond the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Eyes heavy-lidded, he watched Clark rise.

His thighs were splayed apart, showing the place where cum seeped from his ass. Clark ran his index around the puffy hole, before dipping the digit inside with no resistance. Bruce was slick and sloppy, body raw from hours of sex. He winced as Clark pressed another finger inside him, sliding along oversensitive flesh.

His mouth was lax when Clark found it again, his lips parting easily for his tongue. Clark cradled his head in his hands, fingers curled around the square edge of his jaw. As he pulled back, he stroked his thumb over Bruce’s softly parted lips.

Clark knew he couldn’t leave him like this.

Bruce seemed too exhausted to even attempt to hide his soreness. He allowed Clark to scoop him up in his arms, one hand twisting in Clark’s undershirt, the other slung around the back of his neck. His cheek rested against Clark’s chest, casually intimate in a way he had not allowed before.

Carefully, Clark set him on his bed, arranging him up against the pillows. It struck him how quiet Bruce was as he wiped him clean, apparently stripped of his iron will and acid tongue, laid bare so completely that Clark could scarcely recognize him.

Clark sat at the edge of the bed, head half-turned so he could watch Bruce.

“Rough week?” Clark reached down, finding a rounded bruise that blossomed just beneath Bruce’s ribcage. He ran his thumb just above it, measuring the dimensions. A large caliber round, if he had to guess, stopped short by Bruce’s armor.

“Something like that.” Though his answer was far from enlightening, Bruce’s head remained back on the pillows. He did not yet snarl at him.

“You know I’d come if you called. If you needed me.”

“I didn’t,” came the usual reply, less threatening when delivered in a post-coital drawl. “I’m not about to start calling the League into Gotham anytime someone shoots at me.”

Biting his tongue, Clark tried his best to postpone the argument. “Bruce, I’m not—” he sighed and leaned over him, one hand on either side of Bruce’s hips. “Bruce, sometimes friends offer to help each other. It just means I worry about you.”

A lazy half-smirk pulled at Bruce’s lips. With his eyebrow quirked, he asked, “Are we friends, farm boy?”

Clark frowned at him, well aware just how loaded the question was. “Maybe. If you want to be.” Despite his gamble, he got no payout. Bruce only smiled slightly and leaned back into the pillows.

Something possessive pulled at Clark’s chest, keeping him close, and he could not say that that urge was entirely sexual. Clark wanted nothing more than to lay across him, to kiss him again, gently. To soothe him to sleep wrapped tightly in his arms.

Bruce would not feel the same. Lingering this long already strained his always dubious hospitality. Bruce’s interest in him was purely for sex, Clark struggled to remind himself. And as such, it would be best if he did not overstay his welcome.

“Will you be alright if I leave?” Clark asked, something he had never thought to ask before.

Clearing his throat, Bruce nodded. He accepted the hand that Clark lay on his chest, and his final kiss, a chaste press of his lips to his brow.

* * *

 

For a week, at least, Clark attempted to put distance between them. He was afraid of overstepping the invisible boundaries that ruled their relationship, of crossing some line he did not know existed. He feared that his own sentimentality would drive Bruce away, ending the only relationship, sexual or otherwise, where he could fully be himself. Clark did not visit Gotham, but that alone could not keep Bruce away.

It started all over again at the opening of the new Metropolis modern art museum. Though he could now say he had lived in Metropolis for more than a year, sometimes the crowded nature of the city still overwhelmed him. Tonight, that wall of sound overtook him, drowning him in the dense noise of hundreds of people. Restless and uncomfortable, Clark retreated to a corner table.

From the relative quiet of his chosen post, Clark caught Bruce’s approach through the crowd. He leaned back in his chair, watching the swarm of people that gathered in his wake. The woman on Bruce’s arm laughed as they approached him, and Clark did not doubt the joke was at his own expense.

 “Thursday night,” Bruce whispered, one hand braced on Clark’s shoulder as he brushed against him. His lips skimmed the shell of Clark’s ear. “It’s time I repaid the favor.”

That itself was enough to fuel nights of lurid fantasy between this meeting and the next. When Clark found space enough to think, he could not help but wonder at the depth of his obsession with Bruce. If the vaguest promise had this effect on him, it did not seem fair to describe his feelings as anything other than infatuation.

He considered making excuses, anything to keep them apart. In the end, the decision was not difficult. Whatever his fears were about their relationship, they were far outweighed by his desire.


	4. Chapter 4

“Strip,” was Bruce’s greeting just inside the door. “Then sit in the chair.”

He stood casually in the sitting room, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing a glass of scotch. His suit coat was already draped over the back of the couch, leaving Bruce in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, hair raked back from his forehead. He looked to have just come from the office, likely having spent the last few hours feigning disinterest in a board meeting.

Without question, Clark obeyed, piling his clothing in the entryway. Feet bare, he stepped onto the woven carpet and padded somewhat awkwardly into the sitting room. He settled back in the small armchair that sat alone in the middle of the room and waited. Around him, he found a curious array of supplies. A coil of rope rested on the couch, as did a small metal box. To his left, he spotted a piece of cloth sitting folded atop of a pair of sturdy leather gloves.

Bruce took a sip from his glass, then set it down on the liquor cabinet. Pacing deliberately towards Clark, he plucked the dark cloth from the end table. Before Clark could investigate any of these objects further, he slipped the fabric over his eyes.

“You know I can see through this, right?” Clark let his eyes shift so he could peek through the thick black blindfold. He caught Bruce’s shadowy form in infrared light, the heat of his body radiating out from his core.

“I know.” Bruce only seemed to half-hear him as he reached for his glass again.

Clark pushed on. “And, well, rope isn’t enough to hold me if I wanted to get away.”

“Do you?” Bruce turned towards him, head cocked slightly to one side.

“No,” Clark admitted.

“Then close your eyes.”

Reluctantly stowing his uncertainty, Clark complied. He concentrated on his sense of touch as Bruce guided his wrists above his head. The rough calluses of his hands scraped over Clark’s skin, before being replaced by the scratch of rope.

One by one, Bruce lifted his legs, suspending them with ropes at his ankles and knees to keep his thighs spread apart. Half-reclining in the small armchair, Clark held obediently still, aware that with even the slightest movement he could snap the ropes that bound him.

Bruce lay his hand on Clark’s bare chest, idly rubbing the flat of his palm over his ribcage. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled Clark, as exposed as he was now. He had already let him get this far, why would Bruce worry he wanted to turn back now? “Yes,” Clark replied, slight incredulity edging into his earnestness.

Bruce’s hands left him. There was the soft thud of metal being placed on wood, then the slight creak of hinges.

Clark gasped. A chill swept through his bones, stripping away all strength and warmth. Instinctively, he recoiled, but the ropes held him fast. Trembling, Clark inhaled.

Kryptonite.

A spike of panic rose in his chest, pushing up to his throat. Had he misjudged Bruce?

A steady hand settled on his skin. “These are toys, not weapons,” Bruce told him and one by one, he released three narrow slivers of kryptonite to roll down Clark’s abdomen, sliding to a stop near his navel. The crystals clinked together with a soft chime, then were still. Clark held his breath, teeth gritted against the ice-cold sting.

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked.

Clark almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the question. It _hurt_. However, he knew the question was more about his state of mind, if this was all too much. “I’m okay.” And he was, with the promise of Bruce’s hands on him, steadying him for whatever he intended.

Leather-covered fingers grazed Clark’s stomach and Bruce plucked the kryptonite shards off his skin. His lips quickly replaced the coldness of the stone, mouthing at the tender spot.

And, for the first time that Clark could remember, he was truly helpless.

Bruce took an interest in his nipples, biting, licking, and pinching the sensitive flesh, before kissing gently at the abused skin. Clark whimpered, caught off guard by his own sensitivity and unused to pain such as this. He whined as Bruce pulled at one nipple, stretching the skin tight.

When he felt the first prick of the needle, Clark flinched. “Hold still,” Bruce urged him, voice smooth even as he found a better grip on Clark’s chest. After the barest few seconds of adjustment, Bruce smoothly passed the needle through his skin and left it resting level against his chest, pushed under the peak of his nipple.

Clark’s initial gasp turned to a cry as the sting of the tiny wound built. Truthfully, it did not hurt as much as he was convinced it should, but somehow the pure shock of it left him breathless.

Gently, Bruce skimmed the pad of his thumb over the little nub of flesh. Again, Clark gasped, his hips stuttering upwards, as if begging for Bruce to deepen his touch. For that, even Clark was surprised as he had never thought himself someone who would find any pleasure in pain. However, this was _Bruce_ , and Clark could not deny that that was what made the difference.

A hot trickle of blood seeped down his chest, quickly chased by Bruce’s mouth. His warm tongue quickly swept up the trail of blood, before finding his unmarked nipple.

Clark thought he knew what to expect now as Bruce pulled the skin around his other nipple taut. But this time, the progress of the needle through his flesh was torturously slow. Incrementally, Bruce pushed the point through his skin, seconds stretching long, before it finally it slid through.

Again, Bruce took time to toy with the new piercing. He twisted slightly at the needle, rocking it side to side. As he teased him, his other hand slid downwards to encircle his cock.

“Are you-?” Clark gasped as Bruce rubbed his thumb over the crown of his cock, smearing precome over his already slick flesh. “Seriously?” he tried again as he felt Bruce’s fingers glide over the delicate skin at the underside of his cock.

“Yes.”

Fists clenched, Clark remained utterly still. Just an inch below the head of his cock, Bruce gently tugged at his skin and put the point of the final needle to him.

Reflexively, Clark flinched away from the pain, but the ropes kept him from going far. Another cry spilled from his lips as the shard broke his skin. This time, Bruce worked quickly, seeming to know that Clark could not hold still for him.

Clark heard Bruce hum as he leaned back. He imagined him taking in the view as his hands returned to squeeze at his pectorals. Using just his fingers, Bruce slapped lightly at the needles in his chest. Clark gasped and whined, mouth falling open.

For the first time tonight, Bruce kissed him. He seemed intent on swallowing the sounds Clark made as he worried at his nipples, tongue venturing deep between his lips. Clark tensed as his mouth worked lower, sliding down his chest towards his groin.

Bruce swept his tongue idly over the head of his cock, withdrawing when Clark twitched beneath him. His lips trailed downwards, pressing a gentle kiss to the piercing which drew a sharp inhale from Clark. He felt Bruce exhale something that might have been a laugh, breath moist against his shaft, before licking his way down the seam of his sac.

He teased at Clark’s hole, tracing around it with the tip of his tongue before digging his fingers into Clark’s flesh to spread him open. Then he swept the flat of his tongue over the hole, bringing a surprised moan from Clark. Again, Clark found himself taken off-guard by how sensitive he was as Bruce repeated the motion.

Bruce pushed the tip of his tongue into him, stubbled jaw scratching the inside of Clark’s thigh. He licked him open, his tongue slowly working into him. Clark gasped and groaned and tried to stretch his thighs wider apart, anything to get Bruce’s tongue deeper. He panted when Bruce pulled away.

 “I want you to see what you look like.” Bruce tugged at the blindfold, mussing Clark’s hair as he removed it. Reaching out, he brushed a few curls out of Clark’s eyes before he stepped back.

Clark looked down at his own chest, finding the two long needles thrust through his nipples. Glowing green crystal stretched at his flesh, whitening his skin with the strain. Underneath the fresh wounds were narrow trails of dried blood, some diluted by Bruce’s saliva. Further down, his cock jutted out, heavy and dark with blood. A narrow spear of kryptonite gleamed against the flushed shaft.

Bruce stood above him, still in his waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The leather gloves reached halfway up his forearms, shielding his fingers from the prick of the hard kryptonite points.  Clark could see the outline of his cock straining through his slate-grey trousers.

Biting into the fingers of his left glove, Bruce stripped it off with his teeth. He turned from Clark to discard it on the end table, returning instead with lube.

Again, Bruce knelt between Clark’s thighs, slicking two fingers. Aware of his eyes on him, he glanced back up, eyes sliding over his chest before finding his face. “I thought about making kryptonite jewelry, little rings that you could wear. Everyone would be able to see them through your suit and they would know you were mine.”

His fingers circled Clark’s hole, then the first slipped inside. “Might have been impractical,” Bruce conceded, “but I’d be able to see you like this every day.” A second finger joined the first and Clark moaned.

His fingers crooked upwards, finding Clark’s prostate. Again, Clark found himself gasping.  Careful to avoid the piercing, Bruce curled his still leather-covered fingers around his cock. He began to stroke him while kneading gently at his prostate.

“Bruce.” Clark soon found himself panting, thighs trembling. “God, Bruce, please.”

With a wicked darkness in his eyes, Bruce put his thumb to the piercing on his cock. Crying out, Clark came, his hips juddering upwards into Bruce’s gloved hand. Bruce worked him through it, fingers still milking his prostate. Clark felt frozen, muscles locked as pleasure overtook him so great it edged into painful overstimulation.

With the last of Clark’s orgasm wrung out of him, Bruce withdrew his fingers. For a second, he stood examining the cum smeared over his glove, before wiping it dry. With detached precision, Bruce set about cleaning and releasing him, smoothly removing the kryptonite needles then untying his bindings.

As soon as the kryptonite was locked away, Clark felt a measure of his strength return. However, his exhaustion remained, his legs shaking as soon as he tried to put any weight on them.

Wordlessly, Bruce took him up in his arms, one arm beneath his knees, the other cradling his shoulders against his chest. Clark was surprised by his strength as Bruce easily lifted and carried him into his bedroom.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” Bruce told him, a flat statement rather than an offer. He pulled up the sheets around Clark’s body and smoothed them over his chest.

“What about you?”

Face blank, Bruce seemed to consider him for a moment. Then he turned towards his closet, his fingers on the buttons of his waistcoat. Lazily, Clark watched as Bruce efficiently stripped out of the remnants of his suit. His trousers hung and his tie draped sloppily around the shoulders of his discarded shirt, he stepped into the attached bathroom.

Clark shut his eyes and did not open them again until he felt the bed dip. With some surprise, he turned his head to watch Bruce crawl into bed beside him.  The mattress was more than big enough to accommodate them both, so they lay there--barely touching--as Clark drifted off.

 

* * *

 

Bruce woke to the warmth of Clark’s body pressed against him. The soft wisps of his hair spilled onto Bruce’s chest, dark against his pale skin. One of his arms, strong enough to tilt the world off its axis, rested lightly on his stomach.

To Bruce’s sleep-fogged mind, the embrace seemed entirely natural. Comfortable even. And that was a mistake. Painfully, he reminded himself of the reality of their relationship.

Clark was young and fresh off a breakup from the first woman he had ever lived with. Though it stung, Bruce forced himself to remember what that had meant to Clark. An engagement—however troubled—abruptly broken off, and Bruce had only been too happy to take him in his arms.

And, while Clark certainly did not seem to feel that he was being taken advantage of, he could only be using this relationship as an easy distraction, something to keep his mind off Lois. Bruce gave him sex, however rough or often he wanted it. Whenever he was ready, Clark would move on and find himself a partner who better suited him. Someone with less baggage, less anger, someone who did not challenge him on nearly every aspect of his personal ethics.

Silently, Bruce slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Clark. He dressed in darkness, silently as he could manage. Tucking the little metal box under his arm, Bruce made for the door. Clark could see himself out.

 

* * *

 

Upon waking up alone, Clark could not help but wonder if he had done something wrong. Maybe not wrong in the traditional sense, or something that might reasonably be expected to upset a partner. But wrong for Bruce at least, as exceedingly difficult as he was to predict.

His first instinct was to apologize, but his previous experience with apologies and Bruce did not bode well. Nor did Clark even have any idea what he should be apologizing for. Spending the night in his apartment? Asking him to stay?

He tried to talk himself out of his reluctance. What did it matter to him if Bruce decided to end it? It was just sex, after all. There was no deeper emotional meaning. Neither had allowed their attentions to stray too close to romantic love.


	5. Chapter 5

The absence of Bruce left Clark with only work to distract him when he was out of uniform. Clark spent long hours at the Daily Planet, hunched over his desk. Perry was alternately concerned and delighted with his newfound work ethic, while his coworkers often teased him.

Occasionally, Jenny would sweep by his desk with a smile, a barb, or a breaking tidbit from a coworker’s desk. Tonight, she leaned against the partition of his cubicle, freshly poured coffee in her hand. “Next time you see Wayne, tell him that he might want to keep his head down around this time next week.”

Clark blinked for a moment, a little stunned. “Excuse me?” he eventually spluttered, not quite sure how to respond, or even how much she knew.

Jenny rolled her eyes impatiently, as if he were being deliberately obtuse. “Tell Wayne there’s a story that’s going to be bad for him. Might be in the Metro News, might be in the Daily Star’s tabloid pages.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Clark,” she shook her head pityingly. “You and Wayne aren’t really much of a secret.”

“Right.” Clark swallowed, turning back to his computer. A flush crept up his neck as he briefly allowed himself to consider what that might mean and who else might know.

Regretfully, Clark supposed that with Bruce, anyone seen close to him often enough was quickly swept up in his wake for tabloids to puzzle over their relationship. Though Clark thought he had been discreet, that seemed to only mean that there were no photographs. However, rumors did not need hard evidence to flourish.

 

* * *

 

It was a week before Clark saw the story. One morning, he walked in to find a loose-leaf magazine innocently laying on his desk, the tabloid helpfully dogeared to the relevant page. Initially, he suspected Jenny as the culprit, but that theory faded as he dug into the article’s contents.

There was no tape, no compromising photographs, no leaked recordings of Bruce’s breath loud over the phone. Instead, it was an article, printed in black and white and decorated with a few candid, but relatively innocent, shots. Bruce glared out moodily from the front page in some rare public sighting of him in the daylight, unshaven and disheveled.

What the tabloid lacked in other media, it made up for in the obscenity of the article. The Planet would never have printed even the first paragraph, much less the graphic detail buried further inside. By the second page, the article had slipped far past even the pretense of journalism and into the realm of barely-concealed smut.

It was a tell-all from the perspective of an aspiring actress close to Clark’s own age. She briefly dated Bruce over the last several months, their relationship tapering off in a host of broken promises in the past few weeks. Somewhat distantly, Clark realized that roughly aligned with how long he had been sleeping with Bruce. However, he could not bring himself to feel much shame over it.

The narrative alternated between her despairing over Bruce’s rather public philandering, his infidelities, and his drinking, before diving into recounting their sexual encounters. She, or perhaps the reporter, was clearly still very enamored by Bruce as she detailed his penchant for kink.

Clark could not help but wonder if Bruce had arranged all of this, if this was his chosen scandal of the month. Or if Bruce expected him to read this. Indulgently, Clark imagined Bruce crafting the article. A favor for a favor. He would further his dubious reputation and this woman would have her exposure, if she indeed believed that there was no such thing as bad publicity.

Even though he strongly suspected that the article was largely fiction, or at the very least, laden with exaggerated details, Clark read it in its entirety.

It was not only jealousy that captivated him. A baser instinct coiled in him, lust twisted tight with curiosity. Clark struggled with himself as he read of an encounter with Bruce in an upscale Metropolis hotel. The woman knotted her scarf around his throat and rode him, the silk pulled taut in her hands. Beneath her, Bruce gasped and growled, hips snapping up into her. Clark returned to that section, once then twice.

Real or not, Clark closed the magazine, afraid that he risked a more compromising reaction than the flush that already heated his cheeks. However, it was not that easy to halt the churn of images in his mind, a dizzying mix of memory and fantasy.

He made it to lunch before he sent off a text. _Can I see you tonight?_

_At eight,_ came the swift reply. And that left Clark to only wait, scrolling distractedly through his half-finished assignments as he waited for night to fall.

 

* * *

 

Lust made the scenes Clark had previously planned fall out of order. The honest talk was no longer the priority; tonight, his primary interest was sex. Clark scarcely waited until Bruce was through the apartment door before he shoved him flat against the wall, crumpling his dark suit in his fists.

“You’re eager,” Bruce smirked, his sharp curiosity already surfacing. “Did something happen today?”

The question came too quickly, making Clark immediately suspicious. Still, he hesitantly admitted, “I read the tabloid piece about you.”

“Don’t tell me you believed all that.” Bruce’s sly smile widened. “I thought you would know better than to trust a source like that.”

“Did you read it?”

“Of course not. What kind of egomaniac do you think I am?” Bruce paused a beat, before asking with false earnestness, “Did they at least make me sound good?”

Clark was caught between laughing and frowning. He snorted, pressing the back of his hand into his mouth. “You complete—” he reached out for Bruce, hand coming to rest at the front of his shirt. His intention abruptly changed when he touched him, and he asked instead, “You sent it to me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bruce’s voice slipped lower as Clark stepped close to him.

“What reaction were you expecting?” Clark twisted his fingers in Bruce’s shirt. “Was I supposed to be jealous? Or—” Clark trailed off, flustered by the explicitness of his thoughts.

“Or?”

“Or did you want me to spend the rest of the day thinking about what it would be like to have you inside me?”

“Did you?” A darkly pleased look spread over Bruce’s face.

“Every hour since you had that rag delivered to my desk.” With his hand still in Bruce’s shirt, he pulled him forwards, until Bruce’s body collided with his. Tilting his head up, Clark found his lips, while bracing himself with both hands on Bruce’s chest. “Will you do that for me?”

“Are you asking me to fuck you?”

Clark didn’t cringe at the word, didn’t frown at the curse. Instead, he pressed into him, desire growing only more fervent. “Please, Bruce.” Clark turned them both, slowly backing him towards his bedroom.

“Tell me what you want.”

That alone made Clark’s head spin with the sheer possibilities. He wanted everything Bruce could give him. Everything. The idea of having Bruce compliant to his every wish itself was overwhelming.

“Sit on the bed.” Clark directed him, and was almost surprised when Bruce obeyed, sitting at the edge of the mattress. Bruce thumbed the button of his jacket undone and looked up at Clark for further direction.

Impatiently, Clark yanked at his own forest green tie. He glanced up at Bruce as he started on his button down, anticipation quickly growing into outright nerves. Though he had no thought of putting on a show for Bruce, he still found his eyes fixed on him. Clark fumbled over the buttons, before letting the navy checked fabric fall down his shoulders.  

 “What are you thinking?” Bruce prompted, shifting forwards to prop his elbows on his knees.

Barely shaking his head, Clark let out a little nervous laugh. He ducked his head as he toed off his shoes, uncertain what to say.

“Come here,” Bruce spread his thighs so Clark could stand between them. Gently, he smoothed his hands over the hair that curled on his chest, fingers quickly coming to rest at his fly. With a tug, he pulled Clark’s trousers open and eased them down until they slid past his knees to pool at his ankles.

His fingers came to rest on Clark’s ass, squeezing gently at him, then encouraging him to step closer. Dipping his head slightly, Bruce pressed a kiss just above his navel, then another just below. “Nervous?” he prompted, refusing to give up on the hesitance he had picked up on.

Loosely, Clark wrapped his arms around him, cradling his head close as Bruce mouthed lower still. “No. Just a lot on my mind.”

“Other than the magazine?” Bruce inched Clark’s boxer-briefs down his hips teasingly slow. To each newly bared inch, he added another kiss. Finally, the fabric slipped away, sliding down to join his trousers on the floor.

As much as Clark enjoyed the memory of what Bruce could do with those lips, he had other plans for tonight. Hand resting on Bruce’s shoulder, he forced him backwards. “Sit up against the headboard,” he told him. “I want to ride you.”

Grinning, Bruce slid back. Thighs bare, Clark straddled his lap. The black wool of his trousers scratched his skin, rough against sensitive flesh. For the moment, Bruce’s hands remained at his sides as he leaned lazily back on the pillows. Though he did not touch, his eyes slid slowly over Clark’s body as he drank the image in.

Clark started with Bruce’s jacket, sliding his hands underneath its shoulders. As he fanned out his fingers over Bruce’s chest, he found his lips. He edged the jacket down his arms, then his waistcoat, then his shirt. Each piece of clothing crumpled on the bed, fabric bunching up near the small of Bruce’s back.

Easing himself towards the foot of Bruce’s bed, Clark found his shoes. His fingers slid over the shining leather, the smell of polish rising towards his sensitive nose. Gently, he picked the laces undone before slipping them off his feet and onto the floor.

It took more maneuvering to divest Bruce of his trousers. Impatiently, Bruce lifted his hips, twisting out of the jumble of fabric. That left him in his socks, sock garters, and boxer-briefs, all black against his pale skin.

One by one, Clark eased open the clamps that held his socks in place. Gently, he tugged the fine wool down Bruce’s angular calves, discarding each sock over the side of the bed. He unbuckled the first garter and let it slide down onto the sheets. Another gentle hand at the back of Bruce’s ankle, Clark lifted his foot. Lips brushing over his shin, he reached for the buckle at the back of his calf.

Even here, Clark found scars. Underneath his mouth, a pale white scar marked the left side of Bruce’s shin, spreading irregularly over his skin for several square inches. As he gently placed the limb back on the bed, he let his fingers trail up Bruce’s side, to his knee, then his hip, then his chest.

Though Bruce lay back, he was hardly passive. His eyes glittered as he watched Clark move, one hand resting gently on his stomach. He gladly arched up into Clark’s kiss, teeth gliding ineffectually over Clark’s lower lip. Tiring of Clark’s glasses, Bruce hooked his fingers underneath his frames and pushed them up over his forehead.

Clark finally reached below Bruce’s waistband, dragging his boxer-briefs down. Again, Bruce lifted up, tugging them off once and for all, before Clark palmed at the bare length of his cock.

Momentarily drawing away from Bruce, Clark reached for the drawer where he knew lube was kept. Finding the bottle, he tipped it over his fingers. With one hand braced on the headboard, he reached back to press the first digit inside himself.

He shut his eyes as he slowly worked his second knuckle in. Then the second finger, twisted tight against the first. Slowly, Clark worked them in and out, already imagining how Bruce’s cock would feel inside him. He was thicker than Clark’s two fingers put together.

“What are you trying to prove, Kansas?”

Clark’s eyes fluttered open as he felt Bruce’s hands come to rest above his hips. He looked down to find Bruce’s thick fingers framing his waist, then sliding back until his fingertips rested at his spine. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce frowned slightly, but momentarily let the question rest. Clark moaned as he scissored his fingers inside himself. Now Bruce’s hands came to rest fully on his ass, squeezing at the flesh, then spreading him open.

“First time doing this?” Bruce asked, still trying to piece together his uncertainty. With a single finger, he circled the place where Clark’s fingers disappeared inside himself. Bruce skimmed his fingertip along sensitive flesh, before slowly pushing past the tight ring of muscle.

“It’s not my first time.” Whimpering, Clark let his own fingers still. “More like second,” he grudgingly admitted. “I’ll tell you later, just—” he broke off with a soft hiss.

As Bruce pressed deeper, he took Clark’s cock in his hand, working him quickly. Clark gasped, pulling his fingers out so he could brace himself against the bed. Bruce immediately slid another finger in, then another, fucking the three digits into Clark’s ass. As warmth coiled in his stomach, Clark realized he would not last long like this.

“Bruce,” he protested, gripping at the hand that circled his cock. This wasn’t how he meant this to go, this was too soon. At his warning, Bruce stopped, squeezing tight at the base of his cock as he gently withdrew his fingers.

Panting, Clark slumped into him. As he waited for him to gather himself, Bruce nosed along his jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses at his throat. Again raising his head, Clark took Bruce in his hand, pumping briefly at his shaft. Then he lifted up, shifting so close that his stomach slid against Bruce’s chest. Steadily, he lowered himself, slowly guiding himself onto Bruce’s cock.

Bruce’s grip remained tight on him, fingers biting deep into his ass. He shut his eyes for a moment, before opening them again to stare, transfixed, as Clark took his length inside him.

 “Ah, fu—” Clark bit into his lip to muffle his curse. Fully impaled, he leaned back into Bruce’s arms, needing his support. Though theoretically, Bruce couldn’t hurt him like this, the feeling was overwhelming. He felt full, his body stretched around the heat of his shaft as he groaned.

“You know, if you actually swore, I wouldn’t tell.” Despite the deliberate lightness of Bruce’s words, there was an edge to his voice which spoke of some strain as he remained motionless under Clark.

“You’re a liar.” Clark breathed softly against Bruce’s neck. “You’d hold it over my head for months.” He licked his lips, gingerly shifting his weight forwards onto his knees. “Can I--?”

“Yes.” Bruce put his hands to Clark’s hips.

Initially unsteady, Clark started a slow rhythm. He gripped hard at the headboard as he lifted himself, taking care of his own strength as he pushed himself back down. Slowly, his progress became easier, allowing him to settle into a steady pace.

Soon, Bruce began to lift his hips up into Clark, driving himself deeper than Clark had managed on his own. Clark buried his face against Bruce, smothering a moan in his muscled shoulder.

“Lean forwards,” Bruce pulled lightly at Clark’s shoulder, but could not budge him on his own. Easily, Clark obeyed, allowing Bruce to guide him until he was leaning over him, forehead against the headboard. Like this, Bruce could easily thrust his hips up into him.

The angle changed slightly and Clark cried out. “Bruce,” he gasped as he doubled over, clutching at his shoulders. “Jesus, Bruce.”

Clark reached down, his hand finding his own cock. Quickly, he began to get himself off, swaying slightly as Bruce thrust up into him.

He came over Bruce’s chest a moment later. One hand tight on his back, Bruce held him in place, hips still pressing into him even as he gasped and shook. When the moment passed, Clark let his head fall back to Bruce’s shoulder, his body limp on top of him.

Abruptly, Bruce pushed him onto his back. Clark whined a wordless protest as his cock slipped out of him, curling on his side. He was breathless, exhausted, yet still he had expected more.

“Just a minute,” Bruce soothed, coating his fingers with lube. Again, Clark felt Bruce’s hands on him, spreading him open and thrusting his cock into his ass. He cried out, throwing his head back as Bruce again slid inside him, setting a harder pace than he had previously managed.

Gasping, Clark turned his head, lifting up to find Bruce’s lips. He curled his hand around the back of Bruce’s neck to hold him in place, half-stooped over him. He only released him when Bruce groaned and came, hips snapping flush against him.

“Bruce,” Clark whispered as he hunched over him, spent. He kissed Bruce again, drawing away only when he began to ease out of him. Unfolding his limbs, Clark sprawled out on the mattress, feeling exhausted in a way only Bruce had ever managed to bring him.

 

If this was to be their last time together, Clark saw no reason to cut things short. Instead he took his time afterwards, laying half-sprawled over Bruce’s lap. He turned his attention back to Bruce’s body, fingers skimming lightly over his heavily scarred skin.

A great ‘X’ marked his chest, as if someone had tried to cross him out of existence. The scar was faded now, but its strange shape made Clark curious. “What happened here?”

For a moment, he did not think Bruce would respond. Then Bruce sighed, his chest falling under Clark’s hands. “I was young and stupid and tried to fight a man who was older, more experienced, and used scythes for hands.”

Several inches above his navel lay a scar that Clark recognized a bullet wound. It was not the only such mark on Bruce’s body, but it intrigued him for the several long burns that lay above it, sometimes overlaying it. “What about this?” he prompted, gently stroking his fingers along the shiny scars.

“I was ambushed. A man came up out of the sewer while I was dealing with his friends and shot me in the stomach. He used the opportunity to help the cult he belonged to capture me.

“One of my captors was more vicious than the others. He joined specifically because he wanted to hurt people. His favored weapon was a hot poker.”

His fingers trailed lower, pausing at his hip. Clark circled a gunshot wound, old and white. Just above it a slender sliver marked his skin. “And here?”

“A man attempted to assassinate Bruce Wayne. He hit me here as well,” Bruce indicated a small indentation just below his hairline. “The head wound had me in a coma for two weeks, and the other bullet mostly in a chair for three months.”

“Mostly?”

“Mostly.” Bruce tilted his head, a playful smile flitting across his lips. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the rest.”

“Try me.” Fingers at his jaw, Clark encouraged Bruce to turn towards him. “We have more than enough time.”

Smiling slightly, Bruce shook his head. He allowed Clark to kiss him anyways, welcoming the soft press of his mouth. A comfortable silence fell after they drew apart, and though Clark was loathe to change the mood, he knew that now was the only time he would be able to broach the subject.

“Bruce,” Clark began. “I need to be honest with you.” That prelude was enough to make Bruce tense beside him, his easy smile falling off his lips.

“There’s no need to explain. I understand.” Already, Bruce disengaged, turning his head away from him.

“Bruce—”

Bruce stood and took a few steps towards the place where his trousers lay discarded. He paused when Clark spoke again.

“Bruce, please, stay for a moment. What do you think I’m going to say?”

Reluctantly, Bruce let himself be drawn out. “You’ve finally realized that I took advantage of your breakup to push myself on you.”

“Bruce, don’t.” Clark shook his head slightly, pushing himself up on his arms. “Do you really think that?”

“Yes.”

Sighing, Clark shifted to the edge of the bed. “What I wanted to say was that this isn’t just about sex to me. It probably was at the start, but now—now, I really care about you. I’d like there to be more to our relationship. And I know that isn’t what you were expecting out of this, so I understand if you say no.”

The silence stretched long, Bruce unmoving.

“Bruce?” Clark prompted. When no response came, he sighed and pushed himself upright. “I don’t think you took advantage. It was what I wanted, what I needed at the time. It’s just I want there to be more.”

Rubbing at his temples, Bruce took a few hesitant paces back towards Clark. He paused in front of him, his legs pressing into Clark’s knees. “I don’t,” he began, and for a dreadful moment, Clark was certain he was about to refuse him. “I don’t know if you understand what you’re asking for. If you really want all of this,” he seemed to turn inwards, though he remained there against Clark.

“Let me decide then.” Clark put his hand at the small of Bruce’s back, just to touch him, not to hold him in place. “Let me see, then I’ll decide for myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you enjoyed this. Just a quick note. While this is technically DCEU, I did make a few references to the comics in the section about Bruce’s scars.
> 
> The ‘X’ shaped scar is from Batman: Year Two, a story about the circumstances under which Batman will use a gun. I highly recommend it for anyone curious about reasons why Bruce relates to Jason, and the parallels between that story and Batman: Under the Hood.
> 
> The mention of an ambush from the sewers comes from Batman: The Cult. I hesitate to call this my favorite Batman story only because it’s uncomfortable to watch the character be broken so completely. If you’re fascinated by cults, horror, whump, or what Batman sees on acid (I’m serious), check it out. 
> 
> The tale of an attempted assassination on Bruce Wayne is from Batman: Blind Justice, which is fantastic for its look at Bruce’s training and his psychology. I’m also a sucker for any story that is chiefly about Bruce Wayne rather than Batman (and where Bruce Wayne is shown to be a competent, principled person). It also contains an unlikely, but crucial plot point about being able to control specific people through radio receivers imbedded in their brains (I think?), which is why Bruce tells Clark he won’t believe the rest of the story.


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